4 Patch Problem
by storylover18
Summary: Sherlock is faced with a 4 patch problem. It's not until after the case is solved does he end up with a problem he didn't forsee. For BlueMoonstone. No slash, just friendship. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello, everyone! Here's is part one of a two-part response to a prompt from _BlueMoonstone_. I hope you enjoy! **

It had been a long, but productive, day. John collapsed into his bed after twenty-two hours of running around London, chasing after Sherlock. Actually, to be fair, they had spent some time in their flat starring at the gigantic web of photos, maps, and string tacked to their wall, not to mention the couple of hours John spent in Kensington, hunting down a clue Sherlock seemed to think was important (as always, he was right and John's data ended up being the illuminating factor for Sherlock's brain). John closed his eyes, feeling every muscle in his body relax, before falling asleep.

* * *

John woke suddenly. He starred up into the dark, wondering why he was awake and then he remembered. There had been a noise.

_Thud. _

There it was again. Heart beating a little faster than normal, John pushed his covers down and slid his feet into his slippers. Taking his gun from the drawer, John crept down the stairs and switched on the lamp in the hall. There was no reaction to the light but John kept his finger trained on the trigger. He advanced down the hall and felt really silly when he saw the light coming out from the bathroom door. He let his hand fall and he was about to return to his warm bed when he heard what sounded like someone dry heaving.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Fine." Sherlock's answer was strained and followed by retching noises.

"You don't sound fine." John said, only to be responded to by more repulsing noise.

"I'm coming in." John called through the door. He tried the knob and wasn't surprised when it swung open.

Sherlock was sitting by the toilet, knees drawn up and his back leaning against the wall. His face was red, and the rim of his t-shirt collar was soaked with sweat. John could hear him breathing from the doorway – it was clear he was having trouble – and Sherlock's head was hung low, resting on his arms that were suspended on his knees.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, rushing over and kneeling by him. Sherlock, as soon as John knelt down, pushed him away as he lunged for the toilet. He vomited violently before falling back against the wall, hand reaching up lazily to flush. John was on one knee, watching with great concern.

"What happened?" John finally asked. Sherlock's head rose from the cradle his arms created and he turned, blinking slowly.

"Don't know." Sherlock mumbled, his voice scratchy.

"When did this start?"

Sherlock closed his eyes as he tried to think, which was almost as worrying to John as the vomiting.

"I felt ill this evening."

"Ill how?"

"Queasy."

"Okay, then what?"

"I went to bed same time as you and I woke up a few minutes ago."

"Did you fall out of bed or something?"

"What?" It was an odd question, and one Sherlock wasn't expecting.

"I heard a noise." John said. "Like something falling."

Sherlock nodded.

"It was me. I fell when I tried to get up the first time."

"Are you dizzy?"

Sherlock, still panting, nodded again. John reached for one of Sherlock's wrists and took his pulse.

"Your heart is racing." John said. "Are you having difficulty breathing?"

Sherlock swallowed and the doctor didn't need an answer.

"We need to get you back to bed."

"What if I'm sick again?" Sherlock asked and John's heart ached. He had never heard his friend sound so broken or scared.

"I'll bring a bin. You need to be lying down."

Sherlock didn't protest and John held out his hands to help pull the detective to his feet. With Sherlock so unstable, John bore most of his weight and guided him back to his bed. Sherlock fell into the mattress, leaving John to arrange the bed clothes.

"I'll be right back, okay?" John said and left without waiting for a response. Sherlock closed his eyes, willing the content of his stomach to stay where they were, and took deep breaths, trying to slow his heart. John returned a moment later with a bin, lined with plastic.

"It's right here, okay? Let me know if you need it."

Sherlock didn't respond and John reached over him, pulling the second pillow from the bed. He arranged it under Sherlock's head so he wasn't quite as flat. Sherlock swallowed hard.

"John?" he mumbled and John wordlessly handed him the bin before sliding a hand behind his back to help him sit up. Once upright, John let Sherlock have a moment of privacy while he went into the bathroom, searching for the thermometer.

"Done?" John asked Sherlock, who was leaning against the headboard with eyes closed, bin haphazardly on his lap. Sherlock merely nodded and John moved the bin to the floor, making a mental note to empty it after.

"Do you want to lie down again?"

Sherlock lazily opened his eyes, still trying to control his breathing, and shifted in the bed. John adjusted the pillows once again and soon Sherlock was lying comfortably.

"Can you slip this under your tongue?"

John felt bad probing his friend with so many questions, especially when it was so clear he wanted to do nothing but go to sleep. Luckily, the answer for this question only required Sherlock to open his mouth and John did just as he asked by manoeuvring the thermometer under Sherlock's tongue.

"You don't have a fever." John stated a moment later, somewhat shocked by the reading. "That doesn't make sense."

Sherlock's breathing was still very rapid and there was sweat beading on his face. John put the thermometer down and went into the bathroom again, returning with two cool compresses. One he laid generously over Sherlock's forehead and the other he folded tightly and began blotting his neck.

"How does that feel?"

"Good." Sherlock breathed. "But I'm going to be sick again."

John repeated the process – handing Sherlock the bin, helping him sit, and then easing him down after the bout had passed. John adjusted the compress resting on Sherlock's brow.

"We need to figure out what caused this. At your own pace, tell me what you did today."

"You were with me for the entire day."

"No, we were apart for awhile. Let's start this morning, what did you eat for breakfast?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, his eyes closed, before answering.

"Oatmeal, same as you."

"And how did you feel after breakfast?"

"Fine."

"What about lunch?"

"I don't eat on my cases, remember?"

"Right. Okay, when I went to Kensington, what did you do?"

"I thought."

"Besides thinking, what were you doing? Did you have something to drink? Or doing an experiment in the kitchen?"

"I was lying on the couch."

John had a mental flashback to when he was first summoned to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock demanding use of his phone. He remembered he couldn't fathom how Sherlock had three nicotine patches on his forearm.

John suddenly pulled into reality.

"Did you use a nicotine patch?" John asked.

"What?" Sherlock asked. He had started to doze off and he did not appreciate being woken. He couldn't vomit if he was asleep.

"Nicotine patches. When we solved A Study in Pink, you wore three nicotine patches. Did you do that again, use more than one, I mean?"

Sherlock nodded but didn't open his eyes. John, too impatient to wait for an answer, grabbed Sherlock's arm and rolled up his sleeve.

"_Four_ patches, Sherlock?!"

Again, Sherlock didn't open his eyes. The darkness seemed to quell the dizziness.

"It was a four patch problem."

"That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard." John said, peeling off the patches one by one. Of course, it was this comment that prompted reaction and Sherlock lifted his head as much as he could.

"I solved the case, didn't I?"

"Was it worth the nicotine poisoning?"

"Is that what this is?" Sherlock's head fell back onto the pillow.

"I think so. I'm going to treat it as such anyways, seeing as there's no way you'll let me take you to hospital."

"In that case, ask me tomorrow and I'll say yes, it was worth it."

"And what about now?" John asked, folding the patches into one another carefully.

"It is an unforeseeable side effect."

John just shook his head and rolled his eyes, but Sherlock opened his own eyes in time to see John's response.

"What?"

"Nothing, Sherlock. Go back to sleep."

"You think that because I think of this as a work hazard-"

"It's not a work hazard, Sherlock. You can solve problems without overdosing on nicotine supplements, you know."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe sleeping through the night without vomiting? And don't say that's dull or boring because then I might be forced to shoot you."

"Shoot the wall." Sherlock said, losing himself to sleep. John merely sighed.

**If any of you have seen Scandal in Belgravia with the commentary, you'll know that Benedict actually got nicotine poisoning from smoking all those cigarettes in the numerous takes of the morgue hallway scene. Poor guy :( Anyways, don't know when chapter 2 will be up, seeing as school is super busy but I had to write something or else I'd go stir crazy. **

**Please review! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hey, everyone! As always, thank you so much for all the reads/reviews/faves you were all so kind to bestow! I'm glad you enjoyed they story so much =) I have for you the concluding chapter … curious to see what you think, as I'm not particularly thrilled with it. However, I'll let you be the judge. So, without further adieu … **

Sherlock woke up with the sudden urge to vomit and barely sat up in time to avoid throwing up down his front. Knowing he was not going to make it to the toilet, he simply leaned over and allowed the contents of his stomach to splatter all over the floor. He was still coughing when John appeared at the door, which he had left ajar.

"You couldn't have used the bucket?"

"Your bedside manner is touching, Doctor." Sherlock said, straightening and trying to catch his breath. Feeling slightly guilty, John disappeared from the doorway and returned a moment later with a roll of paper towels and a spray cleaner. Sherlock felt horrible watching his friend wiping up the puddle of his sick before spraying down the floor with cleaner. However, when John had discarded the soiled paper towel, he showed no resentment towards Sherlock.

"How are you feeling?" John asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. "And no lies."

Sherlock arched his eyebrow at the last bit but answered truthfully.

"Like I was sent to hell and back."

"That good, huh?" John said, picking up Sherlock's wrist in his right hand. He monitored the pulse before letting Sherlock's hand fall back to the bed.

"Your heart rate's still fast. Breathing easier?"

"Somewhat." Sherlock answered. "Lying down helped."

"Why don't you lie down again?" John said, standing. He watched Sherlock shimmy down before pulling the covers up around him. John picked up the thermometer and held it out to Sherlock.

"Still no fever, that's good." John said, studying the device after it had signalled its end.

"Uh-huh." Sherlock murmured. John's forehead wrinkled slightly upon seeing faint pain lines emanate from around Sherlock's closed eyes. It was obvious his friend was not comfortable. John found the compress on the nightstand and left to remoisten it.

Sherlock flinched when the cool cloth made contact with his face but he relaxed under John's touch as he blotted away the sweat beads. By the time he finished, Sherlock was sleeping again and John let his shoulders fall, losing his calm demeanor.

In all honesty, he couldn't believe that Sherlock had been so stupid as to use _four_ nicotine patches. He was supposed to be brilliant – he _was_ brilliant – so why would he not realize that nicotine patches would do such harm to his body? John couldn't be positive, but he was pretty sure that Sherlock didn't even think about the ramifications of his actions, which frustrated him as a doctor.

John checked his watch – two forty-seven a.m. – and rubbed his eyes. He didn't dare go to sleep in case Sherlock had a seizure or choked on his own vomit. Still, he had been sacked out on the sofa in a state of semi-sleep, lost in that world between awake and rest. Switching the light off, John moved the bin to where Sherlock had aimed last time and left, leaving the door completely open.

* * *

Fortunately for John and perhaps more fortunately for Sherlock, the detective slept soundly till morning. John went in at a quarter after seven to check on his patient.

"Morning." Sherlock said as John entered. John looked startled.

"I didn't think you were awake."

"I've been awake since six." Sherlock said with a sigh.

"How're you doing?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock said with a wave off his hand. It was John's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"You can't seriously tell me you feel perfectly fine right now, not after the night you had."

"I can and I am. I'm fine." Sherlock repeated and offered his wrist. "Take my pulse, if you like. I think you'll find it at a very health seventy three beats per minute."

John pressed his fingers to the raised hand and counted. It annoyed him slightly that Sherlock was spot on.

"Do you want some breakfast, then?"

"Just tea, thanks. It's a good idea to go easy on the stomach after such a rough night."

"At least you've got some common sense." John muttered under his breath before continuing. "I'll be right back with tea."

John went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He was just pouring it into tea cups when Sherlock padded through the kitchen and into the living room.

"I said I'd bring it in."

"Why bother? I'm fine, no reason to stay in bed." Sherlock had sat in his chair and accepted the tea cup from John without uttering a thank you, although John had gotten quite used to the idea that Sherlock did not often use manners.

John sat across him and sipped at his own tea.

"Mhmm, that's good." John breathed, enjoying the warmth, although it made him feel sleepier than ever.

"There's something bothering me." Sherlock said suddenly and John's eyes flickered from his tea to his friend.

"What?"

"I don't understand why I got so ill. I've used four patches before."

"Recently?"

"No."

"That's why, then. You've been doing so well that when you introduced such a strong dose into your body, it wasn't able to respond like it used to."

"Fascinating." Sherlock said with a twinkle in his eye.

"Don't get any ideas, Sherlock." John said, taking a sip of tea. "What you did was dangerous. You could've died."

"But I didn't." Sherlock paused and he put his tea cup on a coaster.

"Listen, John, about last night." Sherlock began and the room immediately filled with the tension that occurred when Sherlock had to apologize.

"It's alright, Sherlock." John said, trying to avoid the situation. He didn't want to be thanked; it was his job to look after people. It was natural for him.

"You would've done the same for me."

"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked, somewhat taken aback. "You can hardly judge my actions based on yours."

"Not everything has to be a deduction, Sherlock." John answered. "I just know that you'd do the same for me."

"I think you're wrong."

"I'm not. Despite what I've seen, you do have a bit of a heart."

"Not a heart big enough to clean vomit from the floor."

John took another sip of tea.

"You would have, I have no doubt. Luckily for you, though, I don't overdose on nicotine so unless we have some bad chicken, I don't think you'll have to worry."

"For your sake, and for mine, I hope you're right."

**So what did you think? I think it's an okay chapter … nothing super special, which may stem from the fact that nicotine poisoning doesn't have much of a treatment except vomiting until there's nothing left and sleep. Anyways, reviews are always appreciated! **

**PS – FYI, that last bit about bad chicken might just come up again … cheers! **


End file.
